


woman's sceptre

by usuallyproperlyhydrated



Category: Harlots (TV)
Genre: F/F, just two damaged ladies trying to figure shit out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-05
Updated: 2018-08-05
Packaged: 2019-06-22 12:01:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15581535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/usuallyproperlyhydrated/pseuds/usuallyproperlyhydrated
Summary: Post 2x05, after the Vestal virgin debacle. Both Isabella and Charlotte have to deal with the consequences of crossing Harcourt.





	woman's sceptre

Lady Isabella Fitzwilliam is accustomed to being surrounded by exquisite things. Her father and then later her brother Harcourt made certain that both the house and estate were filled with the best art, the best furniture, and the best people.

  
Lady Isabella Fitzwilliam has never been permitted to touch any of the exquisite things. As a child, she was only allowed inside her bedchamber and the nursery, where she played with Harcourt’s cast off toys. Eventually she was granted access to a few parlors and sitting rooms and the dining room, but was sharply rebuked if she reached toward an elaborate vase or painting.

  
As a blossoming young lady, there was a statue of Hera that she ached to touch. The statue was in a distant corner of the vast garden, placed there on a whim by Lord Fitzwilliam’s wife and then promptly forgotten. Unlike the other statues, it was covered in moss and sundry other natural debris. And it was still the most beautiful thing Isabella had ever seen. One afternoon, she shook off her sour-faced governess and stood in the alcove where it resided. Her hand hovered inches from the marble. When she finally brought herself to touch it, it was colder and rougher than she expected. Still, she brought the other hand up and caressed Hera’s hips. It left her breathless and terrified. She hurried back to the house and scoured her hands at the washbasin. At dinner, she was certain someone would be able to tell what she had done.

  
She ached to touch Charlotte Wells.

  
And yet any time she had the opportunity to even brush by her, to have the slightest contact, she refrained. Charlotte Wells was not carved from marble, was not a neglected ruin tucked away in a garden. She was very much alive; clever and headstrong and kind. Isabella could not risk doing or saying the wrong thing and hurting Charlotte, either in body or in spirit.

 

In spite of Isabella’s reticence, Charlotte had somehow known what she could not articulate. The girl—for she was hardly older than a child, Isabella reflected gravely, almost bitterly—had asked what no one else had bothered.

  
_ “Is there anything else you want?” _

  
Had Isabella not been so petrified in that moment, she might have laughed. What she wanted was immaterial. Because she was a woman, because she was a spinster, because she was an illegitimate child. If what she wanted, by some accident or miracle, presented itself openly, still she could not act. She was fettered without purpose and without mercy.

  
If she allowed herself to want, she would only desire that one thing in the world remain untouched by her brother’s greedy, grasping hands. Even if she would never have the opportunity, the will, to touch it herself. It was enough to know that there was one beautiful, vibrant thing that her brother had not soiled.    
  


That was what she told herself. It made her appear far more heroic and self-sacrificing than she truly felt.

 

The truth was that she wanted Charlotte Wells for herself. Even now that Harcourt had had his way with her. She would settle for having his cast-offs yet again because Charlotte Wells was not a battered rocking horse. She was so much more than a  _ thing _ .

 

And so, when Harcourt returned from Golden Square late that night, not throwing any snide remarks her way except to wordlessly flourish the necklace she had given Charlotte, and ordered that he not be disturbed until morning, Isabella forgot the sense of helplessness that had entrenched her whole body for decades, since before she became aware of it.

 

Just this once, she would touch her brother’s life with the same force he had used to touch hers.

 

“Lord Fitzwilliam has given over her care to me,” she told the footmen who were in the process of hefting the poor virgin—Abigail, Charlotte had said her name was—out of the carriage. “I’m to fix her up before she is presented to him.”

 

The expressions of the footmen didn’t shift from their carefully neutral default to show that they had heard her; they merely followed her to her bedchamber with Abigail in tow. She had them lay the girl on her bed, then sent them away.

 

She locked the door behind them.

 

It wouldn’t be long before Harcourt came looking for his prize, and Abigail needed to be miles away when he did.

 

Her eyes fell on the unconscious girl, who was just as unblemished as Charlotte had described her. Her entire aura radiated goodness and purity. She could not be allowed to be defiled.

 

Isabella sat at her desk and began writing with more purpose than she had ever written before. When she was finished, she rang for Gordon, the coachman, who took an age to arrive. Although he was loyal to the late Lord Fitzwilliam, he had no love for Harcourt. He had no especial love for Isabella either, but when she told him he must depart before Harcourt was notified, he nodded like a wary ally.

 

“Please take her to Lady Beaufort-Stuart in Glasgow,” she told him, handing him the letter.

 

“And what am I to do if she wakes before we get there?” Gordon nodded toward Abigail.

 

“Tell her everything will be explained at journey’s end.”

 

With no further questions, the coachman lifted Abigail into his arms as though she weighed nothing and carried her out the door. Isabella held her breath, watching the clock as the minutes crept by.

 

Too soon, Harcourt’s footfalls could be heard in the hall, followed by a soft tap on the door that made her wince.

 

“Isabella.”

 

It was far more chilling than if he had shouted and ranted and raved. Harcourt did not need to bluster in order to make his displeasure felt. Isabella had only seen him lose control of his emotions once, and that had been one too many times.

 

She opened the door.

 

“Yes?”

 

“Where is my guest?”

 

He was so sure of himself, so certain that she would bend under his gaze eventually. Her fits of rebellion only lasted so long, and she nearly always regretted them. He made sure of that.

 

“Gone.” She did not bow her head.

 

“Where?” He was not angry yet; Harcourt saved his anger for times when teasing and sharp-edged cajoling failed to produce the desired results.

 

“Somewhere you will not find her,” Isabella retorted.

 

Harcourt laughed at that. “We run in the same circles, dear sister. There is not one person that you know that I do not.”

 

This was true; Harcourt had indeed met Lady Beaufort-Stuart. However, as she was neither particularly young, wealthy, nor beautiful, he would be disinclined to remember her. The Fitzwilliams had met her briefly at a hunting party some ten years ago, and Lady Beaufort-Stuart, a widow who didn’t bother to cover her grey hair with a wig, had come upon Isabella in a rather inopportune fit of weeping.

 

“Come here, bairn,” she had said, wrapping her arms around Isabella. “What ails thee?”

 

Isabella hadn’t divulged a single thing, only kept weeping, but the woman rocked her gently and made soothing noises. When Isabella was finished, Lady Beaufort-Stuart wiped the remaining tears from her cheeks and took her face in her hands.

 

“You are stronger than whatever has a hold on thee,” she said.

 

Isabella felt her lip tremble and she fought to steady it. “I don’t feel strong. I feel…”

 

Lady Beaufort-Stuart seemed to understand without Isabella finishing her sentence. “If ever you need an escape, I will be here to help.”

 

They had parted not long after that, and Isabella didn’t have another private conversation with her for the duration of the hunting trip. But she had clung to that promise in her darkest days. Knowing that she could run away to Scotland made her bear things she might not have otherwise done.

 

Isabella would have been found eventually, this she knew. But not an insignificant girl. If Lady Beaufort-Stuart gained a new scullery maid overnight, it would hardly make waves in Glasgow, let alone be carried on to London.

 

“Be that as it may,” Isabella told her brother, “you will not find her. Go to bed.”

 

He noted the set of her jaw and clenched his own in response. Isabella flinched. 

 

Harcourt got angry then; angrier than she had seen him for years.

 

***

 

Charlotte was awakened by her door opening and the sound of Lydia Quigley’s voice.

 

“Get up,” she snapped, nudging at Charlotte with her foot. Charlotte had apparently fallen asleep slumped against the wall, exhausted from trying to find a way out. “Lord Fitzwilliam is here for you.”

 

“What?” Charlotte sat up sharply.

 

“His Vestal virgin appears to have disappeared during the night, and when I could not come up with a suitable replacement quickly enough for him, he demanded you.”

 

“I am a poor replacement for an untouched girl,” Charlotte said dryly. “As Lord Fitzwilliam himself full well knows.”

 

“The man will not be dissuaded. He’s being absolutely unreasonable.”

 

Although Lydia had not been locked inside her room, she looked disheveled enough that she may as well have been. She yanked the curtains open. Charlotte cringed against the bright morning light.

 

“I don’t suppose you offered him his money back,” she drawled.

 

“Don’t be foolish,” Lydia said. She stood square in front of Charlotte, a frown on her face. “Get up. He’s downstairs now, waiting for you.”

 

“And if I refuse to go?”

 

“My dear,” Lydia’s voice was a mockery of its previous affectionate tones, “you will certainly not be allowed to continue on in this house.”

 

Had Lord Fitzwilliam not been there in that moment of exilement, Charlotte might perhaps have been allowed to creep back to Greek Street, her disloyalty exposed and her careful planning come to naught. But Lord Fitzwilliam was there, and Charlotte knew all too well that he would not be gentle in taking what was owed him.

 

“Am I at least permitted to take some things with me?” she asked Lydia.

 

“Certainly not. You will leave with the clothes on your back and ought to be grateful.”

 

It was just as well Charlotte had used up her savings on trying to save Abigail, for there would be no taking anything from the room with Lydia’s envious eye upon her. She was ushered out to Lord Fitzwilliam’s extravagant coach, where Harcourt himself sat across her with a determined expression on his face.

 

“Do you have siblings, Miss Wells?” he asked some time later, as the coach was leaving London proper.

 

“A sister,” she conceded grudgingly, for it was unlikely that he had not heard of Lucy. Jacob was every bit her sibling as Lucy was, but she wanted to keep something secret from this man.

 

“Then you must know what it is to constantly have to share with them. How tiresome it gets.”

 

Charlotte did not know the feeling. When Lucy had first been born perhaps Charlotte had felt some resentment towards this newcomer who took up so much of their mother’s time, but that had soon faded and was replaced with fascination with the tiny creature and, later, a strong sense of protectiveness. Charlotte had never been able to feel anything for Lucy but love and affection, even on days when she wanted badly to begrudge their mother’s coddling of her.

 

“I don’t enjoy putting my sister in her place,” Lord Fitzwilliam continued. “It’s very much a chore; but as the man of the household, it is my duty to ensure that she does not get above herself.”

 

A vague idea of what had transpired was beginning to form in Charlotte’s mind. Lady Fitzwilliam—Isabella—had succeeded in thwarting Lydia and her brother in one fell swoop. She must have, else Lord Fitzwilliam would not be speaking thusly of reproving his sister. Charlotte turned her face to the window so that Lord Fitzwilliam would not see her smile. Abigail had gotten away. Her own incompetence, her eagerness to press her advantage too far, hadn’t been the girl’s ruin after all. That was why Lydia had spoken of retribution, was why Lord Fitzwilliam was crosser than usual with his sister.

 

Charlotte thought she could bear anything Lord Fitzwilliam had planned so long as she had that knowledge to clutch in her heart.

 

“I imagine it must be very hard for you to be a wealthy man with a title,” Charlotte said. “It must be very difficult to be able to buy anyone or anything you please and do anything you like.”

 

Harcourt sighed, as if he was being much put upon. “Don’t start being tiresome, Miss Wells. One of the things I like most about you is your effervescent personality—vinegar does not become you. We will get along much better if you bear that in mind.”

 

He couldn’t keep her forever, not once Charlotte’s ma found out where she was. All Charlotte had to do was quietly endure until the day of her deliverance and not do anything that would test his limits. What good was being the queen of pretend if she couldn’t manage that?

 

“As you wish, my lord.” She gave him a radiant smile.

 

***

 

A messenger was waiting for Lord Fitzwilliam in the vestibule of the house, and Harcourt waved him away.

 

“Not now,” he said, his hand gripping Charlotte’s arm too tightly.

 

“It’s from Lord Fallon,” the messenger replied. “It’s urgent.”

 

Harcourt snatched the letter out of the messenger’s hand, his eyes quickly scanning its contents. He shook his head and folded it back up.

 

“Inexcusable. You there.” He pointed at one of the footmen loitering about. “Take Miss Wells to my sister’s room. See that they do not leave.”

 

Charlotte was escorted through the great home’s many halls, wondering why on earth he would give such an order. Perhaps she would come upon Isabella’s dead body and be further warned against crossing him. Rich men got away with murder all the time, but surely the murder of one’s own sister would be harder to wriggle free from?

 

Isabella was not dead and very much surprised to see Charlotte there. The footman did not answer any of her questions and left the two women, locking the door behind him.

 

“Lady Fitz.” Charlotte gave a curtsey.

 

“There’s no need to stand on ceremony here; we’re both captives.” Isabella stood from the chaise lounge with a wince. “Did he hurt you?”

 

“No. Did he hurt you?”

 

“Yes,” Isabella stated plainly.

 

Charlotte was no stranger to strong women. Her mother and Nancy were the strongest people she’d ever met, man or woman. They did not turn from a fight nor would they be cowed into doing something they would prefer not to do. And because her mother and Nancy were poor, Charlotte had grown up with the notion that all gentlewomen were soft. She had deduced that the toughness had come from hunger, from the unexpected blows life dealt, from never having enough time to recover before having to go back onto the streets. Noblewomen had food and routine and time aplenty. They were not strong because they did not need to be. Their world was soft, so they were soft in kind.

 

She was finding that Lady Isabella Fitzwilliam was anything but soft.

 

“Sit down then,” Charlotte said, approaching the chaise lounge. “As you said, there’s no need to stand on ceremony. Are you bleeding?”

 

“Just bruised.” Isabella gave a false smile as she sat. The skin that was showing was unblemished, but the pain in her eyes was real enough. “Harcourt claims bruises hurt more than cuts.”

 

“What an awful man.”

 

“I did tell you to stay away from him.” It had been meant to sound teasing, but it came out weary.

 

Charlotte sat next to Isabella without looking at her. “Yes, you did. And I’m sorry I did not heed you.”

 

“Not as sorry as I am.”

 

Isabella was not looking at Charlotte; indeed, she was not looking at anything at all. Her unseeing eyes were directed toward the middle of the room. The corners of her mouth were turned down. Charlotte was overcome with the desire to comfort this woman.

 

She reached out and placed a hand over Isabella’s. Isabella’s fingers fluttered almost imperceptibly at the contact but did not move.

 

“I must admit things look rather dismal, but it’s not all bad,” Charlotte said. “You did manage to get Abigail out. That’s not nothing.”

 

Isabella removed her hand from under Charlotte’s and placed it in her own lap. “No, I suppose it’s the one useful thing to come out of all this.”

 

“It isn’t every day one rescues a fair maiden from the clutches of an insatiable beast.”

 

“And deposits another victim into his clutches,” Isabella replied grimly. “I knew Harcourt would be displeased with me, but I didn’t consider that he might drag you into it. It was foolish of me. Reckless.”

 

“Had you seen me at the auction last night, you would have known what recklessness really looks like,” Charlotte said. “I made quite a fool of myself.”

 

“You only did it to protect an innocent girl. No one can blame you for that.”

 

“That’s what you did, and you’ve paid far more dearly for it than I have.”

 

“You will pay as soon as Harcourt returns.”” Isabella was quiet for a moment, then spoke in a short burst. “And my motives were not as pure as yours.”

 

Charlotte Wells was not stupid. She may not have had the formal education of wealthy men or the polishing of wealthy women, but she knew how to read people, knew how to divine precisely what they wanted. She knew far more about the complexities of human desire than the average person. She knew that Isabella wanted her and that Isabella did not want to want her.

 

There was a ragged edge to Isabella’s wanting. It wasn’t the lustful loathing that God-fearing men felt when Charlotte passed by them on the street. Charlotte was used to their resentment that they, the evolved, privileged beings they were, had been reduced to that state by someone so common. Isabella seemed almost terrified by her own wanting. As though by wanting Charlotte in that way, she was disrespecting her. That she, Isabella, was no different from her brother. As though Isabella’s wanting did not make her more human, not less as Harcourt’s did.

 

Although she knew how Isabella felt, Charlotte did not know how she felt about Isabella’s feelings. When she had first discovered them, she had been flattered, receiving the little thrill she got when she realized someone was rendered helpless by her charm. She had been genuine when she suggested Isabella make use of the time she had already paid for; fucking Lady Isabella Fitzwilliam would not be the worst encounter she had ever had.

 

But there was more to it. She did not want to treat Isabella like a cull, to strive to forget her the moment she walked out the door. She wanted something different, something more. 

 

Something deep and abiding that she did not believe she had a right to as a sullied harlot.

 

“I’m sorry,” Isabella said after some time had passed. Harcourt had still not returned and they were growing weary of anticipating his forthcoming discipline. “For all of this. I would spare you if I could.”

 

From the corner of her eye, Charlotte saw Isabella reach toward her. Her hand faltered midway between them and came to rest on the sofa.

 

Charlotte slipped her hand underneath Isabella’s, palm up, and squeezed.

 

“Thank you.”

 

Isabella grasped her hand tentatively.

 

Neither was certain what Harcourt would bring when he returned, but they were certain that they would not have to face it entirely alone.

**Author's Note:**

> Listen, if I could have made them kiss, I WOULD HAVE. But neither of them is quite there yet, so I'm trying to be patient.


End file.
